


Touched By Death

by coveredbyroses



Series: The Porn Wars [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Smut, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 11:04:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18636847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/coveredbyroses
Summary: Set during 6x11. In order to salvage Sam’s flayed soul, Dean must become Death for a day. He pays you a quick visit before he begins.





	Touched By Death

Dean doesn’t know why he’s come back here, back to Bobby’s. This wasn’t part of the wager.  He doesn’t even know why Tessa agreed to it, but he’s sure glad she did. Maybe it was the look in his eyes, the way he’d bloomed them so wide and pleading. He’s not nearly as good as Sam at the doe-eyed thing, but he likes to think he can make it work. She’d sighed and chewed at her cheek.  _Fifteen minutes_ , she’d said in that plush, breathy voice.  _No more._

It’s midday and the sunlight leaks hazy through the dusty curtains of Bobby’s guest room. He hadn’t expected her to be sleeping, not at this hour, but she’s been exhausted for days. It was evident in her glassy eyes, in the heavy drag of her feet, the slump of her shoulders. She needed this, needed the rest.

He watches her, tries to match his own breathing with the languid rise and fall of her chest. She looks so peaceful, angelic in the way the light gleams along her cheekbone, the way her her hair lays so soft; silk on flesh. He brushes a chunk of it from her eyes, not sure if he can even make the contact, but he does, feels the warmth of her skin, velvety under his fingers. He tucks it snug behind her ear, and she grimaces in her sleep, knits her brows at the touch, then shifts against the pillow, crushing her head deeper into the cushion of it.

It’s a bit thrilling to be standing over her like this when he knows he can’t be seen, at least not with the ring on. Even if she were to wake right this moment, she’d find herself alone in the musty old room.

He shakes his head at himself. This shouldn’t be an interest to him right now. His dick shouldn’t be swelling up in his jeans like it is. Dean has a duty today, an obligation to fulfill his end of the bargain for his little brother’s soul, but she just looks so soft and inviting; tits full underneath that faded old Zeppelin shirt.

It’s a risk; might earn him a slap to the face or knee to the junk when he comes back, but she’s just so beautiful, carries way too much weight on her delicate shoulders. It’s a reward, he decides. He’s only giving her a well-deserved reward. Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d woken her up this way.

He pulls the blanket down to her knees, and yep, she’s only in a shirt and panties. His fingers toy at the cotton hem, dip underneath to trace the elastic. His free hand pushes her shirt up then, lets it lay bunched under her chin so he can gently squeeze at her tits. No bra. She makes a low sound in her throat that makes him jerk his hand away, then sighs out heavy through her nose. He waits a beat, then lets his fingers drop back down to the silky swells of her breasts, runs the tips of them over a nipple. Her lips part at the touch, and he groans when she arches up against him.

Dean burrows his hand further down into her panties, feels the dampness as his fingers stroke over her. Growing bolder, he slips the tip of his middle finger inside, lets it rest there; just feeling her wet warmth, then slowly works it in until his knuckles push against her folds. She sighs again then, and her eyebrows slant, her legs spread. She feels it. He’s still softly groping at her chest, and god he’s hard. He fits his index finger into her next, working her open. He starts to pump; deep, lazy drags in and out, and she starts to stir.

*

You wake up blinking, forgetting where you are for a blip of a moment. It’s hot, sweat gathering along your forehead and above your lip, but you feel…good. You’re wet, you realize, must have been having one hell of a dream, but, oh god. Something…something is  _moving_ inside you. The sheets are pulled down to your knees, your shirt tucked up under your jaw. Panicked, you lurch up to your elbows, and, what the hell - your panties are tented up, like there’s an invisible hand shoved down underneath. You gasp then, because you can feel it, can feel the heat, the roughness of an actual hand.

A ghost? Bobby’s place can’t be haunted, there’s no way, and it isn’t cold. You’re just dreaming. You have to be. There’s no other explanation. You’re just having a very real, very lucid dream.

And you don’t want to wake up.

Something hot and wet drops to your nipple; swirling, the sightless pressure between your legs still pushing and pulling so  _good_. You’re so wet now that you can feel it dribbling down, sneaking out from underneath the thin crotch of your panties to pool under your ass. You get a palm over your mouth to keep the moans in, and shift your legs wider.

The wet, lapping heat leaves your nipple to attack the other, and you let your head fall back, let the pleasure pulse and bloom through you.

The pace inside you quickens, makes your belly tense. Something brushes over your clit, a phantom thumb, and  _oh_ , that has electric heat sparking right up your spine.

This is all to real, yet not, but you can’t be asleep, not with the way every nerve is alight with tingling heat. Something is really,  _physically_  happening. Recognition strikes you, plants a sprout of relief in your chest. It feels like Dean, but he isn’t here…right? He’s out playing Death today, for Sam’s soul. He couldn’t be  _here_.

“D-Dean?” you manage, breathy and broken. The only answer you get is that invisible thumb tacking down on your clit, hard, rubs firm. You grit your teeth at the overwhelming surge of pleasure, but then those ghostly fingers are curling so deep, pressing and stroking right  _there._

“Please,” you gasp. “Y-you can’t - oh god.” The pressure isn’t letting up, it’s overwhelming and perfect and deliciously  _wrong_.

Oh, this is definitely Dean, has to be, because he’s doing the  _thing_. The feeling of pumping fingers is gone, replaced by a deep, trembling vibration. “Shit-shit-shit!” you squeak, and if there was a wrist there, you’d clamp onto it, try to pull it away because it’s all just too much. That tightness down in your hips goes rigid, and god, it’s going to happen-

You feel it in your thighs first, how they go stiff and numb, then it’s in your hips, in your cunt. The taut band snaps then, followed by a flush of fresh heat as the wet sluices out of you to drench your panties. You’re keening through it all, one hand plastered over your mouth to dam most of it in.

“Dean?” you try again, whispering as your nerves settle. Your chest heaves, brain flooded with dopamine. A pressure meets your damp forehead, warm and scratchy-soft. Lips. Then there’s…nothing. You’re left still shaking on the soaked sheets, slick and panting.

A knock on the door quickly clears your head, and you’ve got the sheets and blankets pulled up to your neck by the time Sam pokes his head in. “You okay?” he asks, eyebrows wrinkled over hazel eyes. “Thought I heard you yelling.”

“Huh?” you breathe, then lick at your lips. “Oh, um…” You manage a sleepy smile. “I just had a  _really_  weird dream.”


End file.
